


Godsblood

by orionali



Series: Vampyr: A Page, A Knight, A Queen, A King [2]
Category: Vampyr (Video Game)
Genre: Confessions, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Everyone Has Issues, First Time, Forgiveness, Hurt/Comfort, In Medias Res, Lots of headcanons concerning the Tears of Angels, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Original Character(s), Mystery, Occult, Pining, Porn With Plot, Post-Canon, Redemption
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:14:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27454096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orionali/pseuds/orionali
Summary: Sequel tothe Hippocratic Oath. The year is 1929. Dr. Jonathan Reid, Champion of Myrddin, did not imagine he'd be facing another Disaster quite so soon.But this Disaster andhisQueen are hell-bent on vengeance. No Champion will stand in their way.
Relationships: Geoffrey McCullum & Edgar Swansea, Geoffrey McCullum & Jonathan Reid, Jonathan Reid/Edgar Swansea, Myrddin Wyllt & The Morrigan
Series: Vampyr: A Page, A Knight, A Queen, A King [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1839727
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Godsblood

**Author's Note:**

> Back in 2017, I said that I won't ever be able to write smut feat. anal penetration, but here I am, writing smut feat. anal penetration. However, this introductory chapter, in particular, doesn’t contain any. 
> 
> The story also presumes that you've read _the Hippocratic Oath_ and know what happened to Jonathan, Geoffrey, and know what kind of people they were there, but if you haven't, not to worry: I recap the main events of _THO_ in the first few scenes. Still, it's recommended to give it a read as I'll be referencing it a lot. For all its flaws, I’m still proud of that story. Just don’t read the A/N I left in the end; this story couldn’t be more different from the preliminary version that I outlined there. 
> 
> There will be three acts and each act has been cut into two-three chapters. Each act has been named after a ‘Powerwolf’ song lyric because that’s what I’ve been listening to these past few months. Besides, the titles themselves fit the situation, heh.
> 
> Mind the rating, pairing, and tags: there will be very E-rated smut, but the tale is designed to hold up even if you skip it as there's a GEN-plot driving it. Said GEN-plot was inspired by the ‘mechanics’ present in _Inception_ , _Inside Out_ , and _The Evil Within_.
> 
> One last thing: since this is a sequel to a canon-compliant sequel, it’s rife with conjectures, assumptions, and headcanons. That being said, if you know me, you know that I always try to justify them in a canon-friendly way. So, buckle up! We’re going on an adventure!

## ≡≡ 1. ≡≡

###  ** JONATHAN. **

###  ** THE PRECONSCIOUS LOCI. PRESENT. **

“No! Stop! Please, listen to me! Don't do th—”

A gnarly, clawed hand struck him across the face, tearing the skin and sending him tumbling to the floor. Crazed with pain, he tried to get up, to parry another incoming swing, but the hand flashed out and clamped around his neck. It pushed him against the wall. He gagged and struggled. The creature opened their maw to reveal a set of spiked teeth, but instead of biting down and putting an end to him, they spoke in flawless, pear-shaped tones.

“Jonathan Reid.”

The enormity of this moment hit Jonathan like a sledgehammer blow. Dark, overpowering, and unquestionably feminine, that voice pierced him with a chill that worked its way to his heart. Like all those years ago, in the Finsbury Park Reservoir. 

Dangling from the abomination's grip, he managed a single, labored gasp, “Your Majesty...!” 

Her grip loosened and Jonathan fell. Trying to pump air into his lungs, he crawled to his feet and gazed at the Red Queen. Or rather her very well-built, very mutated, and very male host body. The hostility in her expression was apparent, but at least she did not attack him again. He ached from the inside out. Blood seeped from the corner of his shredded lip.

The Disaster – and this unquestionably was a Disaster – threw a sideways look at the other person in the room. “And Geoffrey McCullum. So good to finally meet you.”

“Who?! What— What's this?!” A sweat broke out on Geoffrey's forehead. Was that fear? If so, it'd be so unlike him... He was a Nimrod. He was an avenger who had honed his abilities toward the destruction of all undead. But could a Nimrod cleanse the Morrigan's monstrous host? 

But before Jonathan could mull that over, the hunter stole a glance at him. “Are you okay?” he asked. 

“I'm f-fine. I'm fine,” he answered with a wheeze. “I appreciate your c-concern.”

“Shall you introduce me to your Progeny, child?” the Queen asked. The sheer venom in her voice appalled him. “Or should I say my son's avaricious and fallen Champion?”

That quip scratched like nails on a chalkboard. “O-Of course, your Majesty.” He drew in a shaky breath and let it out. “Geoffrey, t-this is... This is the Red Queen. The Morrigan. The Celtic Goddess of War. She may have begotten vampires, but she feels no remorse at ending their – our! – existence. And what we're looking at is her vessel. A Disaster.”

“The Morrigan? A Disaster?” McCullum repeated. “But how can this be a Disaster? Didn't you tell me that the Morrigan can bind her essence to the only vessel capable of holding it: a vengeful woman? This is a man!”

He swallowed down a sob. A part of him wished to be as far away from here as possible. “This isn't just 'a man'. Look closer.” 

The Red Queen returned McCullum's scrutinizing double-take. A large, toothy grin split her face. “I gave myself over to instinct, Geoffrey. It's something I should've done a long time ago,” she said with a small lisp. As she spoke, her voice lowered several octaves, becoming even, masculine, full of malice, and frighteningly familiar. Jonathan's pulse quickened; he thought he'd never hear this voice ever again.

“That voice! Jesus bleeding Christ.” The hunter's eyes went wide and blank. “This thing! That's— That's Swansea! What the hell happened to him?! How— How could she possibly possess him?!”

“You'd want to know that, wouldn't you?” Edgar said, hissing.

Jonathan wilted. His neck and jaw muscles contracted and quivered. “It's my fault. All mine.”

“What are you saying?” Geoffrey's face was a riot of dread and bewilderment.

The Morrigan's— Edgar's lips curled into a sneer. Sharp, terrible teeth flashed in the dim lighting of the office.

###  ** GEOFFREY. **

###  ** THE SUBCONSCIOUS LOCI. TEN HOURS BEFORE. **

Tapping a pen on the leathery binding of his journal, Geoffrey sat in his usual spot enclosed by high-arched windows. He peeled back the cover – a crisp crackle – and wrote:

> Day unknown. I lost count. But I would assume it's been a couple of years.

Sunlight filtered through the violet clouds. Its evening kiss felt hot against the nape of his neck. Hot, but not excruciating – in this realm of theirs, sunlight no longer fazed vampires. No charred skin, no melted flesh, no pain. And yet he still could remember his foster father's 'field studies' and the foul stench of molten rot. Nothing disturbed the sun’s unrelenting attack. The chained Skal screeched and thrashed as it burned. All in his mind's eye. 

Geoffrey thought he'd be condemned to a similar fate. His fountain pen caught the sun's glimmer, and he let it run along the edge and onto his unprotected hand. Apparently not. He looked over his shoulder.

But the sun showed no intention of slipping behind the western hills. A flock of blackbirds streaked across the unchanging sky, pattered by raindrops… Raindrops that rushed upward from the ground itself. A stagnant, polluted river cut across the land, forming a crisscross pattern. Flowers crowded the garden outside. Over the porch, a honeysuckle and a white climbing rose were competing as to which could give the most work to bees. But the ‘bees’ looked like butterflies with human faces. Common sense did not dictate in Swansea's head. 

Nonetheless, there was a beacon in the heart of this chaos: a quaint, cozy, two-story house covered in creeping ivy. Their home. A haven. A cocoon. A section of Edgar's twisted mind under their joint command. It sheltered them carefully from those that couldn't tolerate their presence. Even now, these faceless presences, these illusionary figures, loitered outside. Thankfully, they weren't intelligent, organized, or aggressive. Their hollow eyes betrayed a truth, however: they didn't like those who so keenly preserved their individuality.

Sometimes, these phantoms would bustle back and forth. Sometimes, they'd glower and spew threats in flat, emotionless voices. Sometimes, they'd wail and whimper, a chorus of tormented souls. The victims. And the leech that slaked his thirst every night was to blame.

Geoffrey himself fell prey to Swansea's machinations and hunger. To his surprise, Jonathan followed suit mere days later. But unlike the featureless and insubstantial wraiths, they had kept their wits about them and flourished. They had emerged as architects, capable of coaxing and weaving some facets of this new world. They could create and destroy to their heart's content. Only Edgar himself held greater power over everyone and everything here. But...

Edgar. McCullum scowled. They hadn't spoken with Edgar for what's probably been months at this point. He likewise hadn't contacted them. Well, nothing of value was lost; Swansea and his feeding habits had become more trouble than he was worth.

A smokey haze coated the room, tickling Geoffrey's nose. Jonathan lay in the neighboring chaise-longue, gripping a cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. With furrowed brows and gritted teeth, he brought it to his lips and breathed out. The smoke swirled and splintered into shards of iridescent glass. They shot up, spraying multicolored sparks into every direction. A rueful smile bloomed and died on Jonathan's healthy, human face. 

Both of them might appear alive, but, for all intents and purposes, they were still undead. Undead figments of imagination which too would have perished were it not for their... importance.

Jonathan flicked the cigarette butt into the overflowing ashtray on a table between them. He propped himself up and stared at the levitating pieces, his expression slack. His grey-green eyes flashed through a myriad of emotions; worry, joy, fear, anger, and finally – sorrow and surrender. 

“You're thinking about him,” Geoffrey stated, redirecting his attention back to his journal. 

The fragments flared to a white-hot brightness and vanished. “I was trying to come up with an idea for an art piece.” Jonathan pursed his lips. “I've my mother's artistic talent. If it was not for my ambition, I could've become a painter or a writer.”

Geoffrey looked at him pointedly. “Ah. Your ambition?”

Reid flinched. “I’ve got a lot on my mind, and after all this time? Yes, I may have had a realization. Not an overly pleasant one, as well.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?” His face softened into an empathetic smile. 

“I'm sorry, but no. Not yet.” Jonathan drew his mouth into a razor-thin line and bit his lip. “Do you think we did the right thing by abandoning Edgar like that? We were his guidance, his morals, no? I fear he may be in trouble.”

“He's still alive, isn't he?” Geoffrey put the pen aside and folded the arms across his chest.

“I suppose so. I imagine that everything – us included – would cease to exist the moment he died, but—” He heaved a sigh. “What do you think of it?”

McCullum looked him dead in the eye. Choosing his words deliberately, he said, “I don't know. Really. On one hand, I'm most relieved that disgusting, child-killing piece of filth was left behind. I'd have no part in what he was doing. But on the other? That did not seem like Swansea. There was something not natural about his behavior. I realize immortality drove him mad, but such rampant and rabid ferociousness?”

“I noticed that too.” That made Jonathan's features darken. “Such transmittable and murderous fury commanded the Spanish Flu Skals. We know now what it was: the Red Queen's Blood of Hate.”

Geoffrey detected the insinuation in his response. “Do you think...?” He let the thought finish itself.

He shook his head. “It's certainly something that I've thought about, but that's impossible. The most sophisticated insulin-based antidote flowed through my veins when Edgar Embraced me. He would've gotten the optimal dosage required to curb the Blood of Hate that had already been in him.” His voice came out steady and more throaty than normal.

“But you had yourself injected.”

“True, but the Tears of Angels would neutralize that vile poison regardless.” Jonathan drummed his fingers on his bent knee. “You've known him for far longer than I. What was he like? How did you two meet?”

His right eyebrow arched. “Squirrely, but reliable. The only heir to a semi-prominent Welsh family. Intelligent, but would you expect otherwise from an Oxford man? We met in Scotland in 1902, at the Dunbarrow Sanatorium. He worked his residency, Carl sent me to bolster our numbers. He was a decent fellow, perhaps trying too hard to impress Talltree who had just been elected the new Primate. He knew I was from the Guard, but we talked. He even showed me the prototype ultraviolet-orichalcum trap he'd designed – remember that?”

Reid snorted.

“Anyway, he wanted to present it to Talltree, to prove he was worthy to join the Stole,” Geoffrey went on. “I asked him to show me how it worked, and he obliged. When I submitted my report, Carl said he'd make a most excellent addition to our cause. Edgar, however, declined the offer and continued to pursue the Brotherhood instead. Despite that, we parted on good terms and kept in touch.”

The other vampire's gaze shifted around the room. “So what happened? You were antagonistic to him back at Pembroke.”

McCullum stopped and made a grimace. “He became borderline obsessed with Ashbury after she offered him that administrative position. He acted without having a clue nor caring. Turned conversations back to vampirism no matter what I tried to say. Those injections of vampire blood must've affected him. More than he realized. Or maybe he'd simply dispensed with pretenses and revealed his true self. So when the Skal epidemic happened—” 

“You had a reason to suspect him, even though there was no evidence of his involvement,” Jonathan concluded for him. “I understand.”

Geoffrey rubbed the back of his neck. “Why this interrogation? I thought you didn't care for him.” 

“I didn't,” he answered with a small nod. “I wanted to disgrace him and all that he stood for. I wanted him dead. Only then would I let Usher kill me. Nowadays? Nowadays I wonder how he's been faring.”

The Nimrod waved his hand dismissively. “Since he didn't follow through with his threat of I Shall Raze Priwen to the Ground, I'm sure he's holed up in his hospital. Andrew would be too busy with reorganization and mourning our dead. They wouldn't touch him.” 

Just as he forced these words out, an empty feeling settled at the pit of his stomach. Who was he trying to fool?

And, of course, Reid picked up on his uncertainty. “See, you say that, but you remember the two soldiers that were mauled by him,” he said. “You do not believe a peaceful resolution is an option.”

That got Geoffrey's hackles up; his muscles tensed. He snapped his journal shut. “I conversed with them personally. Both Katherine and Jeremy told me of their struggles and what they hoped to achieve. There are good men and women in Priwen who do their best to protect this land from beasts.” He breathed in. “That being said, no. I don't believe in that. Leeches and the Guard would never live in harmony.”

Jonathan held his gaze for a long moment before looking away. “But can we be so sure? We're entombed. Our lives are static while time is passing on the outside – real world.” He glanced out the window. “And one more thing: I don't like this change. Edgar's subconscious has always appeared as a densely populated city and now it's a wilderness. Something has happened to him. Did he leave London? Why?” 

Geoffrey followed the other vampire's stare: a wraith was glowering down upon Jonathan, freezing wind whipping the vapor of its breath away. “Even if he did, why should we affiliate with him?” 

“After he turned me, Myrddin abandoned me to my fate. I had to learn the ropes on my own – thank God Elisabeth and Edgar were there. I wouldn't have survived without them.” Jonathan's voice exuded a steely resolve as he sat up. “I did the very same thing to my Progeny, yourself included. I fed the blood and... And left.” He hung his head. “I could've... I could've been a better Maker. A better person.”

McCullum leaned in closer. “Do you mean it?” he asked, stressing every syllable. “Do you want to be a better person?”

Conflicting expressions played across Jonathan's face: a sneer, a frown, a smile, a... glazed, regretful look? “I do. I need to go back, back into the preconscious loci.” His voice carried, cracking. “I am responsible. For him. For everything.”

“But are you sure you want to do this?” He tipped his head to the side, considering that information. “Face it, he's out of his mind. He's devolved into an animal that kills for pleasure. Do you want to be around him again?”

“He's not an animal!” Jonathan snapped, hands briefly clenching. “He's—” He winced and sucked in a breath. “Not every vampire has your great willpower, hunter. Remember what kind of person I was?”

That hit a nerve. Geoffrey gritted his teeth, hating how the mere mention of that made him feel. “I'd rather not think about what kind of person you were,” he muttered. “Let's change the subject.”

Jonathan blinked and broke eye contact with him. “Apologies. That was insensitive of me.”

“No harm done.” He cleared his throat. “What about all the things we said? Our departure for this loci was... explosive.”

“One of Sean Hampton's parishioners – Lottie – told me 'sometimes words are harder to forgive than actions, Dr. Reid'. Wise words that she kept repeating in her head. I said cruel and hurtful things which I can never take back. I wish to apologize. I need to go back.”

“I'll come with you,” he declared without hesitation.

“No,” Reid balked, “it's something I must do alo—”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Geoffrey cut him off. “We're in this together since Swansea is as much my responsibility as he is yours. I did order his death after all.” He paused. “And I do consider you a friend and an equal, despite our differences and our bickering. And friends have each other's backs.”

“You've proven yourself more than worthy of my trust and friendship, too. Very well, I won't refuse your offer. Thank you.” A thin smile tugged at the corners of Jonathan's lips. “I... I don't know what awaits us in the preconscious loci. We won't have our godlike powers there – we must be ready for anything.”

The Nimrod stood up, cracking his knuckles and shaking to keep loose. “No sense in wasting time then.” 

Jonathan nodded and snapped his fingers. A shadow cut across the wall. Cracks fanned out like a spider web, widening, revealing an intricately designed black-and-white door underneath. 

“If we burst into the preconscious, he'll sense us immediately,” Geoffrey warned, eyeing the monochrome door. “Do you want to take that risk?”

“The preconscious loci bridges the subconscious with the consciousness. Like rings on a chain mail, these layers interlock seamlessly. He'll spot us. Eventually. That has to happen, yes, but I'd rather we re-introduce ourselves as gently as possible. We don't want to cause undue strain on Edgar's mind; his stress can hurt us.” Jonathan got to his feet. A .45 revolver appeared in his hand and he tucked it into his waistband. 

McCullum raised both eyebrows. “What's that about? The phantoms seem harmless enough.” He gestured to the throng outside. One apparition in particular kept glaring at them, but beyond that it did nothing.

“Having one gives me comfort and peace of mind. Old habits die hard,” he clarified, crossing his arms and rocking on his heels. “Let's go.”

###  **JONATHAN.**

###  **THE PRECONSCIOUS LOCI. NINE HOURS BEFORE.**

A corridor with no ceiling suspended in black, all-encompassing nothingness. A corridor dotted by lights that failed to pierce the gloom. Ropy vines that broke through concrete and encroached through the gaps. Debris littered the floor: rotting beams, remains of a pillared canopy bed, broken chairs, and dressers. He smelled wet earth, cut grass, and wildflowers. 

The maze-like preconscious had transformed too, Jonathan noted as meandering tree roots grabbed at his feet, tripping him. It was subjugated by nature, just as the subconscious. His head buzzed with one question: why? Both subconscious and preconscious reflected the outside world their 'owner' was seeing. Unless Edgar traveled, they wouldn't change. He had lived his entire life in London – Jonathan knew that for a fact – so why would he abandon the only thing that mattered: Pembroke? Edgar would stand his ground if some terrible menace loomed over his staff or patients... beyond himself, that is.

There's always a time when a mortal is only seen as blood by a vampire, whatever the bond between them. He'd told Charlotte Ashbury that much.

Regardless, Edgar was a coward. He was so mortally afraid to die, his lust for immortality dwarfed all other concerns. And yet a profound sadness scarred this otherwise lighthearted and carefree man.

 _Irene? Irene?! Where is she?!_ A phantom of a prepubescent boy scampered past Jonathan and came to a dead stop. Translucent tears rolled down his cheeks.

Another apparition – a middle-aged woman dressed modestly in a nightgown – materialized before them. _Edgar?!_ it exclaimed. _Who let him here?! No! Don't look at her! Wesley, take our son away now!_

A cut. The woman’s apparition pulling a child's head towards her breast while stroking his back. _A vampire? Those penny dreadfuls? Hush, my dearest boy, you're in distress. That was a rabid dog. A rabid dog killed... killed poor Irene._

A cut. The child, an adolescent now, sitting in front of a soaring window framed by drapes pulled nearly shut. He held his hand against the thin sliver of light. _They may not believe me, but it doesn't matter. Graceful, ferocious creatures... I'll find them._

A cut. A shadow of Edgar pulling open a file-cabinet and riffling through the folders. He turned with his head held high. _It's good to finally meet you in person, my lady._

A distinguished red-headed woman approached Edgar’s shadow. Elisabeth. Jonathan's lips twitched.

 _Pleased to make your acquaintance, Dr. Swansea,_ she said, bobbing a curtsy to him. 

“He lost someone to a leech.” McCullum's voice jolted him like electricity. 

Jonathan stared at him for a brief, perplexed moment before returning to the ghosts. “It seems so. And as a child, too. You and he aren't that different then.” He dragged a hand through his hair, losing himself in his thoughts. “Did you know?” 

“No, he never mentioned anyone by the name of 'Irene'. Is this the origin of his fascination with vampires?” Geoffrey strode off, scrutinizing the illusionary versions of Edgar and Elisabeth as he went. “These phantoms. They've never taken shape like this before. Are they memories?”

“I... I should think so. They're lifelike. Projections of Edgar's psyche reenacting the events of his life?” he hypothesized. 

“But aren't we memories?” McCullum asked.

“Technically, yes. We've been granted a certain degree of autonomy, but that doesn't change who or what we are.” Dr. Reid reached out. His hand passed harmlessly through the conversing pair – Edgar's spectral copy didn't seem to mind. “Incorporeal. That's good. Means we've nothing to fear from them.” He plastered on an unconvinced smile. That didn't feel right.

“If they're no threat to us, then we should move forward,” Geoffrey said. “I've no wish to intrude upon Swansea's personal life any further.”

“Agreed.” His eyes lingered on the memory a little longer. “There are some secrets that are not ours to speak of.”

Edgar stayed to chat merrily with Elisabeth.

* * *

A corridor with no end in sight. Sometimes, it'd curl in upon itself to hide the void above, sometimes it'd stretch in all directions at once. Sometimes, the downward pull of gravity would disappear or all color would drain. Rows of empty doorways sliding past like gaping maws. Memories milled about the preconscious in diverse anonymity, preoccupied with rebuilding the past and paying the two no attention. 

Cautious, Jonathan and Geoffrey waded through this dense crowd of phantoms. Some of the nigh-faceless specters were meant to represent him, Jonathan learned to his displeasure. The same quirks, the same arrogant smirk playing at the corners of his mouth...

Would he have wanted it any other way, though? He had a role in this mess.

“We've been wandering for two hours, give or take.” Geoffrey shoved his hands into the pockets of his tattered overcoat and sidestepped yet another dark, unexceptional figure. “Why hasn't he detected us yet? We're stirring up far too many memories to not go unnoticed.”

Jonathan looked around. “I do not know, and it worries me. It's as if something is keeping us from interfering. Could it be—” He stopped and stared forward.

“What is it?” The Nimrod's gaze drifted from him. “A door?”

Indeed, a door loomed before them. A large black door in the black wall, it was built of blocks resembling coal, and like coal, the blocks were all different shapes and sizes. It had no visible lock or handle and the specters seemed to skirt away from it almost instinctively. Cold breathed off the blocks as he got closer, but that failed to frighten him. He laid his hands on the door and pushed. It didn't budge. Puzzled, he threw his weight against it. Nothing. Was this the end of their journey?

“So the loci ends here?” the other vampire asked, observing his efforts. 

“I don't know.” Jonathan stepped back. “This barrier isn't natural, that's all I can say. It... looks as if it's shielding Edgar's innermost thoughts? The place where he can spot us?”

 **`Are you surprised?`** A rich, deep, ethereal voice inquired from behind him. **`He's none too willing to welcome you back.`**

Jonathan swiveled on his heels, his revolver sliding easily from the holster, and lifted a single eyebrow. One of many charcoal-grey shades stood before him, wearing a frock-coat, a striped green scarf, and a peeved expression. Or what he thought to be a peeved expression: the shade's features were, of course, amorphous. 

Geoffrey squinted. “Is it addressing you or is this another memory?”

Before Jonathan could reply, the shadow's gaze came up to McCullum's face. `Greetings, hunter. I never had you pegged for a fool. How does it feel to be taken advantage of?`

Geoffrey's brows drew down in a scowl and his eyes flashed dangerously. “What do you mean?”

`He's your Maker and you're his Progeny,` it chuckled, placing its hands on its hips. `He's the one who thwarted all of your efforts with a kiss of Judas? You call him 'friend,' but can't you see he's using you?`

McCullum bristled and his hands balled into fists.

Righteous anger began to bud inside Jonathan. “Don't listen to it.” His voice was louder than he would've liked, but he didn’t care. “I did those terrible things, yes, but I went to great lengths to renounce the person I once was.” 

This made the shade shift its granite stare. Its inscrutable countenance rippled. `Do not misunderstand. I'm not here to drive a wedge between you and him. I'm here to offer you guidance.`

“Guidance?” he repeated, incredulous. “What guidance? What are you?”

`I?` It pointed a finger at itself. `I'm a memory, but I don't belong to your other Progeny. I'm your memory, doctor, original and intact. I survived the same way you did.`

“My... my memory?” His mouth went dry and he involuntarily wet his lips. “Are you... one of those I had Embraced?”

A hand squeezed his shoulder. “Stop talking to it, Reid,” the Nimrod grumbled. “Let's just go.”

Jonathan glanced and met Geoffrey's alert gaze. “Give me a minute.” 

The ghostly apparition's features sharpened into a man's face. `I was an important person in your life. You have all but forgotten me, but I can see you're remembering,` it said with a smug look on that face. `We were good friends, you and I. We've done many great things together. We proved to be inseparable.`

Edgar? No. He wouldn't refer to himself as the 'other' Progeny; he wasn't inferior to McCullum. Could it be... “Who are you?” Dr. Reid leaned in closer. His body tensed to the point of snapping in half.

It smiled, revealing rows of blunt teeth. `Renounce the person you once were? Ridiculous. You may lie to yourself, but I won't be deceived.` Its canine teeth grew into fangs. Eyes – blood-red, with slit pupils and burning with malice – erupted on its gaunt face. Veins threaded the pale skin. `I'll make you remember—` Its appearance bubbled like hot candle wax, changing, becoming— 

Himself. 

All fury and hunger.

“The monster you are!” his doppelgänger bellowed, unashamedly mimicking his voice now. “No redemption! No second chances! All you praise in your unlife is human blood!” It reached out, its long and pale fingers... connecting. Seizing him, holding its grip on his collar. It pulled a wicked grin.

The sound of his heartbeat thrashed in his ears. There was a taste of bile in the back of his mouth that he couldn’t seem to get rid of. The entire world jerked to a standstill. He couldn't look away.

Something moved just out of the corner of Jonathan's eye. Geoffrey's left fist. Trying to deliver a right cross to the doppelgänger's jaw. 

It reacted with some truly superhuman speed. Breaking eye contact with Jonathan, it parried the swing. “Well met, hunter and my Progeny. I see you're still seething.” It addressed McCullum in a guttural, growling tone. “If you cannot get over such a tiny thing as your own death, expect complications.” Then, with its lips stretching into a snarl, it threw a punch in retaliation. 

A loud crunching sound and Geoffrey stumbled back with a scream of rage. His nose spewed blood. “Shut up! You— You've taken everything from me! You—!” He pushed himself to his feet, undoubtedly ready to strike again. His own lengthening fangs were bared. 

Jonathan came to. With great effort, he tore his eyes off his duplicate. “Geoffrey! Don't listen to it! It's not— It's not real, you hear?!”

“Not real?” The doppelgänger turned to him again. “I'm you. I'm the very fiber of your being. I'm the one thing left when all reason is stripped away. I'm as real as either of you are!” 

“No, you're not.” Jonathan raised his gun. In his hand at arm's length, right at its – his own? – head. “You're a parasite. All of my crueler emotions personified. I made the mistake of letting you take control of me... No more!” He tried to put on a brave front, but it didn't quite work. His hand trembled.

“You seek redemption, but you are destined to fail. Nothing can quench this thirst for blood.” It smiled warmly, but its eyes held a demented, famished glint. “Besides, he'll never forgive you; he wears his scars as marks of your betrayal. So save yourself the trouble and give in.” It shoved him with a strength he had never expected for it to have.

Jonathan lost his balance and fell, hitting the floor spread-eagled. He tried to get up, but the doppelgänger jammed its foot down on his hand, breaking his grip on the revolver, and kicked it away. He scrambled up and lunged, but it evaded and punched him right in the solar plexus. He doubled over, pain spiraling through him. He sank to his knees, breathless.

 _Thump-thump!_ With a frenzied bellow, Geoffrey slammed into the copy. Both toppled to the ground. His fist smashed against its cheek, its ribs, its stomach, but it simply winced as if all of this was no more than an enormous inconvenience to it. 

Snatching McCullum by his wrists, it spoke, each word dripping with venom. “You didn't win then, what makes you think you'll win now?”

“I'll watch you suffer!” McCullum's eyes, nose, and mouth all seemed to be crumpled into a vacant, crooked mask. “You'll pay for what you've done to me!”

A mile-wide smirk quirked its lips. “That is unlikely.” It gave the faintest of nods. 

The corridor tilted and rotated like a listing vessel as gravity itself shifted, a wall becoming the new floor and the bottomless void – the new wall. Jonathan was thrown off his feet again; his revolver bounced off and clanked. 

The shift caught Geoffrey off guard as well. The doppelgänger jumped at the opportunity and gave him a sharp round punch to the side of his skull. To his credit, Geoffrey's steely grip didn't loosen. Latched onto each other like war dogs, both he and the projection rolled down the sloping surface, towards the yawning chasm.

Swallowing the pain, Jonathan rose on his elbows. For a few moments, he couldn't determine who was winning, but this ambiguity didn't last: grabbing McCullum by the lapels, his doppelgänger headbutted him. One sickening crunch was immediately followed by a yelp of pain. Geoffrey's head lolled to the side, and a rivulet of blood flowed right along his hairline. With a bored expression, the duplicate flung him away from itself, got up, and smoothed its coat. The hunter himself seemed to be conscious, albeit barely.

Jonathan hoisted himself up from the ground as well. The gun gleamed grey and white some feet away from him. He sprang toward it. 

“You ought to mind your place, my Progeny. I don't need to resort to trickery to best you – even if I can't kill you,” his voice said. The doppelgänger's fingers dug into the flesh of the Nimrod's neck. “No memory ever truly dies in Edgar's mind.” It lifted his dangling body aloft with one hand, holding him right above the dark nothingness that descended endlessly below. “But a memory can be forgotten.”

Geoffrey's expression clouded, his lips quivered. Helplessly, he tried to swing back around and kick the phantom.

Jonathan's hands wrapped around the revolver. He cocked the hammer, took aim... and hesitated. He couldn't shoot this accursed projection there and then – it'd drop his friend into the void. “You do that and I put a bullet in your skull!” he yelled. 

This got its attention, thank God. It looked straight at him and gave an impatient huff. “You'd do this? You would shoot yourself?” It paused. “A second time, I might add.”

Dr. Reid crept closer and pushed the barrel of his gun against its left temple. Now, his hand was steady. The wraith's eyes widened slightly. “You're not me,” he hissed, baring his teeth. “You're a wraith. A shadow of the man I once was and whose desire for blood outweighed his duties as a doctor.” He motioned with the gun. “Pull him back in.”

Its chuckle was low and soft. “You turned him hoping he'd be shunned and hunted by his kin and now you're trying to save him. You're really trying to bury your sins, aren't you? Forgive and forget, is that it?” 

“Pull him back in,” he forced out. “I will not repeat myself.” 

“Go ahead then. Shoot,” it taunted. Dark, sadistic pleasure bloomed across its face. “End this and prove my point once and for all.”

He threw Geoffrey a sideways look. The hunter's eyes were pinned to his, pupils dilated and breathing labored, but apart from that, his condition appeared stable. There was consolation in the knowledge that vampires didn't need to breathe to survive.

This didn't add up. Why was it begging for a bullet? Slowly, Jonathan lowered the gun. “If you wanted to kill him, you would've done so already. But you haven't. Which makes me think you're not a memory. Or maybe you are, but you're not one of my own.” 

It regarded him blankly and then furrowed its eyebrows. Jonathan bit his lip to keep himself from smiling; his gamble didn't go unwasted.

“Just so you know, when I was you,” he elaborated, “I couldn't stand McCullum. Tried to kill him a couple of times only to realize that neither of us could be killed, just like you said.” He allowed the smile from before to quirk his lips as he holstered his revolver. “You could do us all a favor by letting him go and telling us what – or who – you are.” 

The wraith's cadaverous and sullen features tightened. It yanked Geoffrey away from the edge and unceremoniously dropped him on the floor. It leaned, its face mere inches away from his. “You think you're so clever, Dr. Reid.” The growl deep in its chest sounded more like a dry rattle.

Well, at least it dispensed with the pretense. “No one knows me as well as I, I'm sorry to say,” he said. “And you— The preconscious submitted to your will. You bore the brunt of Geoffrey's attacks and emerged unscathed. There's only one person who can warp our Dr. Swansea's mind like that.”

The doppelgänger stared at him, an irritated, exhausted, and tortured look on its face. 

Geoffrey picked himself up and nearly buckled under the weight of his own body. “Wh—” His voice was hoarse and he wheezed when he exhaled. “What—”

“What am I talking about?” Jonathan guessed. He gestured to his double. “That's Edgar... pretending to be me. He's omnipotent in his own head after all.”

“Eh?!” The Nimrod turned his baleful eyes upon it, or rather, the disguised Edgar. 

“Are you all right?” he asked. “Are you in pain?”

“I'm—” the other vampire heaved, one hand on his knee, “—fine.” He tried to wipe the blood off his face but ended up smearing it. He clenched and unclenched his fists.

Gnashing his teeth, Edgar pivoted on one heel and made his way toward the black door. A flush of adrenaline tingled through Jonathan's body. Now or never.

“Edgar! Edgar, wait!” He chased after him and grabbed his shoulders, spinning him around. “I want to talk.”

“Don't touch me!” his Progeny snarled, swatting his hands away. “You want to talk. Doesn't mean we need to—”

“Swansea! You bloody— bloody bastard!” A savage and inhuman shriek sounded behind him, and the very next moment, Geoffrey barreled up to them both. He came down on Edgar like a bag of bricks, knocking him to the floor. He threw a headlock around him. “I'll tear your head off for this!”

“Geoffrey! What has—” come over you, Jonathan wanted to ask but reconsidered; the answer to that would-be question was fairly obvious. 

“You sick, ignorant son of a bitch! Do you even realize what you've done?!” He screamed over Edgar's choking. ”Do you even realize what you made me remember?! I'll see you dead! Change back! Change back, damn you!” 

Filled with purpose, Jonathan grasped Geoffrey's arm and hauled him away from Swansea. The hunter went limp, and he struggled to hold him up. With a sigh of relief slipping through his lips, he said, “Deep breaths, Geoffrey. Relax. He's not to blame for this.”

“You made me remember... Damn you...” he repeated, tears rolling down his bloodstained cheeks. He slumped to the floor, wracked by ragged sobs. 

Jonathan set him down and let his gaze fall sternly on Edgar's – transformed – face. “Unlike yourself, he never wanted to be a vampire, and looking like that, you picked at old wounds. You had best change into something that wouldn't remind us both of the events of the past.” He offered him a hand. 

Coughing and sucking in breaths, Edgar took it and scrambled to his feet. “I— I didn't mean any harm,” he gasped out. “I wanted to let you know that I felt your presence, but didn't know how.” He paused. “I can shapeshift back into a more natural form, but I don't think it's a good idea.”

Dr. Reid frowned. “Why?”

“It's a long story, Jonathan. And, you're right. We should talk. All three of us.” He spread out his hand in a flinging motion towards the black door. It 'jumped' ninety degrees to match with their altered environment. “Beyond, there's a haven. These memories won't interrupt us there. If you'd follow—”

“Fuck off.” Seated on the floor, Geoffrey violently rolled his shoulders as if his overcoat chafed his skin raw. He fixed his watery, red-rimmed eyes on Jonathan. “I for one am not talking to him! Particularly while he's imitating you.” He got up. “I'm leaving.”

Edgar took another deep, pained breath.

“Geoffrey,” Jonathan said, “this is important.”

“Important to you, perhaps,” McCullum grumbled. He leaned forward and whispered hotly against his ear, “He's fucking insane. Let's just get out of here.” 

He rolled his shoulders back. “I need to do this and I'm going to do it. I can’t turn tail and pretend things are anything but what they are.” He paused. “You can’t either, Geoffrey. As you said, it is your responsibility too.”

The other man squeezed his eyes closed and tilted his head back. Too many seconds passed. In the end, a despondent smile touched the corners of his mouth. “I know, but I'd rather be alone. For the time being at least.” He gave a cursory nod. “Do what you must, but be careful.” With this, he stalked off, phasing right through the murky humanoid shapes and vanishing from sight.

Jonathan gazed after the Nimrod. Geoffrey was half-right. Edgar didn't go mad; their joint actions had driven him to madness.

Edgar's red eyes glinted at him. “Aren't you going after him? It'd be easier to talk to you both.”

“Pointless,” he said. And he added in a murmur, “he'll come around, but right now, nothing I say will make a difference. Let's go. After we're done, I'll sum up everything to him.”

Edgar laughed in a way that indicated he wasn't at all pleased. “This way.” He headed for the door, effortlessly pushed it, and invited him to go in with a nod.

A wave of damp chill washed over him. With his head slightly thrown back, Jonathan entered. 

**Author's Note:**

> PS: The Red Queen's personality is modeled after her portrayal in the Celtic myths i.e. she's a vindictive, resentful deity who revels in slaughter but who is ultimately good and frequently rewards the people who pass her tests. This has been done because, well, her role in the game is pretty straightforward.
> 
> PPS: This originally meant to be a one-shot that ended very, _very_ ambiguously, but because I love plot, loathe ambiguity, and didn’t want to write another dark fic, I chose to turn it into a small multi-chapter with a tangible ending. Stay tuned!


End file.
